


to earn my place

by blamefincham



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, Coming of Age, M/M, Team Dynamics, actively avoiding the broning trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>June 25, 2011: Brandon Saad is drafted 43rd overall by the Chicago Blackhawks.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>June 24, 2013: The Chicago Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	to earn my place

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic because I love Brandon Saad and you should, too. You should probably know that this is a character study fic with a romantic subplot, as opposed to the other way around. Sorry, Saader and Shawzy; maybe I'll write you the romcom meetcute au of my dreams one day. 
> 
> A hundred thousand thanks to Alexandra and Jenny, both of whom endured reading this thing a thousand times as I wrote one scene at a time out of order and texted them like "I WROTE ANOTHER THING PLEASE GO READ IT AND TELL ME IT'S GOOD". Y'all are the only reason this thing is not just a few k of boys flirting, left to waste away in a gdoc forever.
> 
> The usual rpf disclaimers: please don't share this fic with anybody who's featured in it; if you are named in this fic, here be dragons; no libel intended; this fic is really about celebrity personas of real people; etc etc etc.
> 
> Title from [Those Who Wait](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CalSEsVBMR0) by Daley, which was on repeat for at least half of the writing of this fic. Click [here](http://8tracks.com/ungilded/to-earn-my-place) for the full playlist.
> 
> Aside from the parts about boys kissing and the handwaving of girlfriends, this fic follows real events as closely as possible. See end notes for more details on this (possibly spoilery, but also...you know what happened in 2013) .

Brandon chews his cuticle. Then he remembers there are cameras everywhere, so he stops and pulls his hand away. Then he remembers that most of them probably won’t be pointed at him for a while, so he lets himself put his hand back to his mouth.

He feels a bit sick to his stomach, but it’s not just nerves. It’s preemptive disappointment, regret, frustration, _and_ nerves.

He was supposed to be a top ten pick—he's worked his whole life for this, and he knows he's good enough. But he played through his groin injury even though he knew better, kept thinking, ' _One more game, then I'll go to the doctor_ ,' even as he watched his stats decline. He's got no one to blame but himself.

Brandon's still hopeful, though. He'd have loved to go top ten, sometimes let himself dream of going first—but even with his slump, his numbers are still good enough to go first round. The Pens pick 23rd, which definitely isn't out of reach, and it would be nice to play for the hometown team.

—

When the first thirty picks go by, signaling the end of round one, and Brandon is still sitting with his parents, it's just about the worst feeling he's ever experienced. Worse than reading all those articles about his "work ethic problems" and "character flaws" is being confronted with their effects, and if he thought his nausea was bad before, it's doubled now. What if he goes undrafted? What if he has to give up on hockey, go to college (late), and get an engineering degree so he can join the family business?

He's silent as he watches the Ducks shake hands with Rickard Rakell, a right winger he remembers skating circles around in the O. He tips his head down and stares at his knees, fists clenched, fighting to keep his face blank. It takes him a minute to realize his mom is gently uncurling the fingers on his left hand. He lets her, and she slips her hand into his, squeezing firmly.

"Everything will work out the way it's supposed to, sweetheart," she soothes quietly. Brandon squeezes her hand back and gives her a tight smile. It makes him feel a little bit better. 

—

The next day, when the Blackhawks draft him 43rd, it feels like salvation.

—

Training camp is, in a word, surreal. Day one, at the practice facility, is grueling, but day two is a whole festival that seems to have the entire city of Chicago in attendance. Brandon's never been to a game at the United Center, but walking through the doors and following the signs to the locker room still feels momentous. There are people lined up outside to buy tickets to watch a _scrimmage_.

There's a definite leak in his happy bubble, though, when he checks in and discovers he’s been assigned number 43. Brandon knows that it’s random—nobody asked them about numbers, they’ll save that for players who actually make the team—but it’s one hell of a coincidence.

The noise of the locker room swells around him as more guys show up and start chatting to those they know from juniors or minors or previous seasons with the Hawks. Brandon has watched at least half of these guys play on TV. This is the part Brandon's always been bad at; even with less famous teammates, it always takes him a month or so to click with a new team.

But this is training camp, and he doesn't have that luxury. He gives himself ten seconds to wish he was back in Saginaw, then shoves that down and turns around to survey the locker room for familiar faces.

It takes Brandon almost no time to notice that he’s been given the stall next to Andrew Shaw, who he played with last weekend in Oshawa. He remembers him from prospect camp, too, and the OHL before that: not someone he’s talked to much, but a good guy, if a little over the top—and definitely the kind of guy you’d rather have playing with you than against you. 

“Hey, Shawzy. Good to see you,” Brandon says, throwing a friendly punch at Andrew’s left shoulder. It’s not how he’d normally greet a near-stranger, even one he’d played with a couple of times, but it seems fitting for a guy like Shaw. 

When Andrew whirls around, shouts “Saader, my man!” and pulls him into a quick, slap-heavy hug, it’s evident that Brandon made the right choice. Andrew’s grinning, bright and easy, like there’s no place he’s more comfortable than in a locker room full of strangers who are all here to compete for a handful of roster spots. 

“What team are you on for the scrimmage today?” Andrew asks; rather than waiting for the answer he simply snatches Brandon’s welcome paperwork out of his hands and rifles through the packet until he finds what he’s looking for. “Oh, awesome, white team! Me too! Up high,” Shawzy says, raising his fist above his head.

Brandon is dimly aware that he should probably be put off by this complete disregard for his boundaries and possessions, but he’s played team sports his whole life _and_ he has an older brother. He’s used to it. If anything, it makes him feel welcome. He knocks his fist into Shawzy’s and smiles. “Good thing, I’d rather not have to get my face stitched up on day one,” he chirps.

It’s a mark of just how much more at ease he’s already feeling that a comment like that rolls off his tongue so naturally. The joke lands well, too; Andrew throws his head back and cracks up. “Hey, every team needs a rat!” he says when he recovers. “I’m glad to be playing with you too, bro, ‘cause I’d like to win today.” That’s accompanied by an elbow to Brandon’s side. It’s perhaps a little more forceful than would normally be considered friendly, but that seems typical for Shawzy. 

Besides, it’s a nice thing to say. Brandon smiles again, pleased, and scratches at the back of his neck. “Thanks, Shawzer,” he replies, then follows that up with a shoulder shove. It’s against the rules of hockey friendship to be sincere and not immediately violent afterwards.

—

After that, it’s a little easier to relax on the ice. He ends up on some powerplay drills with Nick Leddy, a D-man Brandon meshes with right away. They’re both fast, skating circles around the other three guys on the unit, and they play keep-away between shot attempts like they were born to do it. 

When the whistle blows and the units rotate, Leddy skates over and knocks helmets with Brandon. “Nice, man,” says Leddy, simple and sincere. Brandon knows that Leddy spent half of last season with the Hawks; he’s under no obligation to praise Brandon without any chirping, like he’s an equal, but here he is anyway.

“You too,” Brandon answers, formulaic. Leddy smiles, smacks Brandon’s ass, and skates off to grab some water.

—

Training camp is nothing like prospect camp. There, Brandon was skating circles around almost everyone; here, he knows most of the guys are much better than he is. He doesn’t let it overwhelm him when he’s on the ice; he just keeps his head down and plays his game, like he's always done.

In the scrimmage, he feeds the puck to Jonathan Toews, who puts it away with a sick one-timer. Toews immediately skates Brandon into the boards with a flurry of head-pats. “Gorgeous pass there, Saader. Keep that up and you’ll stay on my wing,” Toews tells him, and internally, Brandon cellies a second time. 

—

Brandon learned early to resist the urge to Google himself, but his dad sends him some articles anyway. They're actually pretty favorable—cautious, maybe, about his age and experience, but the writers seem to be impressed with him, and he hopes the coaches are too. He plays his heart out in the preseason—scores the game winner against the Caps, which is amazing—and at the end of it, he gets offered a contract.

He knows how well he’s been playing, but a part of him still doesn't quite feel like he's earned it. When they ask him what number he wants, he tells them he’ll keep 43.

—

It is absolutely fucking terrifying to suit up for his first real NHL game. He’s excited—of course he is, it’s everything he’s been working for since he was a little kid dragging his brother back out onto the rink so he’d have somebody to play against—but his hands are shaking so badly he can barely tie his skates.

The guys do their best to pump him up; he’s pretty sure every single one of them gives him a fist bump or a pat on the helmet or a swat on the ass as they’re lining up in the tunnel, but if anything, that just makes him more nervous. Brandon can feel the weight of all the expectations on his chest. It makes it a little hard to breathe.

Weirdly, it helps that it’s an away game. Brandon’s never played in a real game at the United Center, but he’s seen the videos, and he’s sure it would be damaging to the organization if one of their rookies had a heart attack on the ice after skating out to cheers. 

The lack of crowd support settles him a little, but it doesn’t improve his play. He’s been focusing in practice, learning new plays and skating his heart out, but out here where it matters, he’s stuck in his head. He feels like he’s trailing after the play, a couple paces behind, for the entire game. Brandon doesn’t play _poorly_ —he manages a couple shots, a nice pass—but they still lose, and nothing he did out there helped to prevent that. 

—

It’s not really a shock when Brandon gets pulled into a meeting to tell him he’s being sent back down to Saginaw.

Three shots on goal over two games just isn’t good enough, and he knows it. Of course, he wishes he’d at least earned the nine-game maximum tryout, that he’d played well enough to deserve more than a quick look before the Hawks decided he definitely wasn’t ready, but the fact is that he just didn’t. 

There are lots of reassurances that this is nothing against him, that the organization is trying to do what’s best for his development, that they expect to see him on the team again as early as next year—or, they’re careful to hint, this year, if something changes.

Brandon supposes if Kane, Hossa, and Sharp all end up on LTIR and half the other wingers on the team fall into dramatic, career-low slumps, he’s got an outside chance.

On his way out, Bowman tells him, “Don’t put your head down; you made it this far. Keep working and improving, and you have a bright future.” It helps a little.

He carefully does not look away from his locker when he’s cleaning it out. Brandon doesn’t know if anybody else is around, and he doesn’t want to know. A sympathetic pat on the back might bring him to frustrated tears, and then he’d have to beg for a trade rather than show his face here again.

It’s just—it’ll be _easy_ to go back to Saginaw, to a team of guys he knows already and a style of play he’s had a year’s experience with—and Brandon doesn’t like easy.

—

By the time he gets back to Saginaw, he’s done being frustrated and on to being a little bit angry. He knows it’s childish, which is why he’s not saying it out loud. The Blackhawks want to send him back to juniors? Fine. He’ll make them wish they hadn’t. 

When he takes the ice against Brampton, he’s feeling more focused than he ever has in his life. Brandon’s not sure if it’s his bitterness or the sliver of NHL experience he got, but it seems like everybody else is skating around with weights tied to their ankles. He’s _flying_ , the puck seems to be magnetized to his stick, and he scores—and again—and again—and _again_.

That could’ve been a fluke, he thinks afterwards, but—he gets a goal and is second star when they crush Peterborough 9-1, and then a goal and three assists against Oshawa. Brandon doesn’t think he’s skating any faster, but everyone else seems so _slow_.

At practice, after he’s named the player of the week of the entire CHL, O’Connor skates up to him and checks him gently into the boards. “Man, what are you _doing_ here?” he jokes, but Brandon can’t help but wonder at the truth behind it. Maybe he’s only playing this well because the pressure’s off. Maybe he’s just going to spend his entire career choking when it matters.

—

He stays on a hot streak through sheer force of will. Brandon skates like his whole career is on the line every time he takes the ice. When he gets slashed in the hand hard enough to break a bone in November, he doesn’t let his conditioning lapse for a second. He plays for Team USA at World Juniors and they finish an embarrassing seventh. Brandon puts the certificate on his mirror as a reminder to be better.

January is a whirlwind. On the second, they trade O’Connor, which leaves them without a captain; three days later, McFarland is gone too, and they’re down to two As. 

It’s barely a week after that when Brandon gets pulled aside after practice and asked to take the C. He doesn’t stop smiling for days, it feels like. It’s hard to imagine that he was disappointed to come back here—sure, he wishes he was making a splash in the NHL right away, but he can see in hindsight that he needed this. 

At least someone he knows _is_ killing it in the NHL. Shawzy got the call up at the beginning of the month, right when all the trade madness was happening, and Brandon’s glad he found the time to call and congratulate him because it led to the discovery that a drunk, happy, hyped-up Andrew on the phone is _fucking hilarious_. They’ve texted sporadically since they parted ways after training camp (Brandon’s hoping they’ll play together sooner rather than later, and it’s always good to know somebody), but they hadn’t talked in a while, and—and it was nice. 

Also, just. _Hysterical_. 

It’s that thought that leads Brandon to give Andrew a quick, casual Google. Nothing out of the ordinary, just—he can’t sleep because tomorrow is his first game as captain. They’re up against O’Connor’s new team because _of course they are_ , and...it might make him feel better to see video of Andrew doing a stupid celly or losing a fight or something. Just as a reminder that totally ridiculous people can make it in the NHL, so there’s no reason he can’t too.

But the first result in his Googling turns out to be not a video, but a story on the Blackhawks website, titled “The Night #ShawFacts Was Born.” Brandon doesn’t have a Twitter, nor does he want one, so he only nebulously understands hashtags, but the article makes sense anyway. It’s like Chuck Norris jokes, but with Shawzy instead.

It’s ridiculous. It does the trick, though; Brandon’s chuckling as he scrolls down the list. ‘ _When Shaw jumps into a lake he doesn't get wet the lake gets Shawed_ ,’ says one—completely nonsensical, which is appropriate for a Shawzer-themed trend. He tries to go on Twitter and search for more, but it keeps trying to get him to sign up—and Shawzy’s probably seen all the good ones by now anyway.

Brandon navigates back to the article he was reading and sees that at the bottom they’ve mentioned Andrew’s contribution: ‘ _Andrew shaw loves chicago and doesn't want to leave #shawfact_ ’

He’s doing it wrong _and_ he fucked up the hashtag, but it squeezes something in Brandon’s chest anyway. He closes the tab on his phone, opens iMessage, and types out ‘ _I can’t believe you fucked up your own hashtag. Andrew Shaw is a dumbass #ShawFacts_ ’ 

It’s kind of late, so he’s not really expecting a reply, but his phone bings at him a few seconds later. ‘ _Whatever Andrew Shaw says goes!!! #ShawFACT_ ’ and then, a couple seconds after that, ‘ _Thanks buddy. Good luck against barrie tomorrow, ull smash em_ ’ and five comic book explosion emojis. 

Brandon decides it’s both weird and touching that Andrew knows his schedule that well (or can Google that quickly, and thought to). He sends off three thumbs-up emojis and is asleep within minutes.

—

It sucks to lose in the semis. It sucks worse to lose at home. It sucks even worse to make it past the first round but not far enough to really think you have a chance at winning it all—and being the captain makes it all harder. Brandon has to internalize his own disappointment long enough to talk to reporters, console his team, and reassure his family that he’s doing okay. By the time he gets home that night, he doesn’t want to think about getting out of his bed for at least four days.

He gets one. The day after that, he’s woken up early in the morning by a phone call. Chicago’s recalling him for the playoffs.

Instantly, all his weariness from the end of the season is wiped away. Brandon can do the black ace thing; he’s in great shape and he knows a lot of these guys from his time with the Hawks in October. Even if he doesn’t end up getting to play, it’ll be awesome to travel and practice with the team.

The day after he gets called up, he’s in the dressing room at the UC watching the game when Hossa goes down. “Oh, _shit_ ,” says Morin under his breath; all the guys are on their feet, like them standing will help Hoss do the same.

It’s never good when a guy doesn’t get up right away; it’s really fucking bad when they bring out the stretcher. Especially someone like Hossa, who is a legend and an incredible hockey player, but also not exactly young anymore. He’s wheeled off the ice, the medical staff holding his neck like it’s made of glass, and Brandon prays to the hockey gods that he’s okay.

—

They find out at practice the next day that he is, more or less—not in playing shape, but they expect him to be fine—and Brandon exhales in relief. He remembers Hossa doing incredible things for the Pens in 2008 and to see a guy like that go down...well. 

The upside of it, even though it makes him feel guilty for being excited, is that Brandon gets to play. He gets the nod over Morin, who’s been playing for the IceHogs and has had more time with the Hawks, and that’s quite a vote of confidence. 

Game four is fast and intense, and the team is playing pissed off on Hossa’s behalf. Brandon gets a few good hits, but he also has a bad giveaway in the neutral zone, and he doesn’t net a single shot on goal. It’s not good enough, not by his own standards for himself, but he’s still on the roster for the next game, so at least he gets another chance. He’ll do better.

—

In the third period of game five, Brandon’s on a line with Kaner, which is an exercise in getting him the puck as quickly and as often as possible. He tries for a tip-in himself, but it goes wide, and his shot on the rebound is blocked by Klesla, who slammed him into the boards in the first period with a muttered, “Welcome to the big leagues.” 

The period is ticking by, and the score is still 1-0 Arizona. Brandon gets in a board battle and loses it. Then Vermette is skating back down the ice with the puck, his head down, and Brandon sees his chance. He snatches it off Vermette’s stick and passes over to Frolik with barely a look. It lands on his tape, and Frolik passes to Leddy, who slaps it in--and that’s it. They’ve tied the game, and Brandon’s earned his first NHL point on the assist. 

They win. Brandon’s scratched for the next game, which they lose, leading to an embarrassing first-round exit for the Hawks. Brandon knows he should feel worse about that than he does, but he just keeps replaying that goal in his head (and, okay, on YouTube a few times, he’s only human). He hasn’t really been a Hawk this season—he feels guilty about it, but the team’s loss feels like it doesn’t belong to him.

—

Around May, rumors of another lockout start up. Brandon doesn’t think much of it: the CBA doesn’t expire until September, so it’s a little early to speculate, and he’s got no idea if he’ll play in the NHL next season whether it proceeds as normal or not. He puts it out of his head and focuses on relaxing, spending time with his family and friends in Pittsburgh, and keeping in shape. Whether he’s headed for Rockford or Chicago, he’ll need it.

He unexpectedly gets a call in June from Stan Bowman himself. There are some pleasantries at first, some compliments on Brandon’s play from back in April, and then Bowman invites Brandon to announce the Hawks’ first round draft pick at the upcoming draft.

Brandon’s speechless on the phone for a few seconds, then stammers out an, “Uh, o-of course, Mr. Bowman, I’d be honored to.” He knows it’s because he’s from Pittsburgh and they’re hosting the draft this year, but that’s still a pretty big vote of confidence from the organization. Brandon hopes it is, anyway. His agent seems to agree when Brandon emails him to let him know, so it seems like a safe assumption. At least it’s nothing too difficult.

—

In retrospect, Brandon thinks, that could have gone better. He was so nervous that it’s a bit of a blur, but his family helpfully recorded it, which means Brandon can watch himself speaking too quietly and mispronouncing Teuvo Teravainen’s first _and_ last names, in front of the entire hockey world, as many times as he likes.

George thinks it’s hilarious, which is kind of his job as Brandon’s big brother. No matter how much Brandon points out that he was nervous and that Teravainen was projected to have gone seventh so he had to try and figure out how to say it in the thirty seconds it took him to walk to the stage with Bowman, nothing stops George from calling him ‘Toovo’ at least once a day until Brandon leaves for prospect camp. 

Brandon hits him every time he says it, but he also practices the correct pronunciation when he’s alone until he gets it down. He’s been called Brandon Sad enough times to know how it feels.

—

He makes sure to greet Teravainen in the locker room with a warm and correctly pronounced, “Hey, Teuvo, how’s it going?” The kid looks pretty nervous, but he smiles at Brandon, and Brandon internally high-fives himself. It’s not like he wouldn’t have smiled if Brandon had fucked it up again, but—Brandon’s not the youngest guy in this room, not like last year, and he likes being able to make people feel welcome. 

Lockout rumors loom large over prospect camp. The coaches gloss over it, but it’s the talk of the locker room. None of these guys were anywhere near the league in 2005, but they all agree that an entire season gone would be terrible. 

—

As September draws closer, it becomes increasingly clear that an agreement isn’t going to be reached in time for the season to begin as scheduled. Brandon focuses on training, because hopefully he’s going to be playing hockey somewhere. His agent thinks he’ll be assigned to Rockford, because that’s the next natural step for his development and because that would mean the Hawks want him ready for a possible call-up if the season does start late. He could sign with Saginaw for another year as an overage exception, but that would feel like a plateau, and Brandon needs to keep moving forward, towards the NHL. It’s the only way he knows.

On the morning of the fifteenth, the day the CBA expires, Brandon gets the call: he’s going to Rockford.

—

Brandon doesn’t feel nearly as nervous at the first training camp practice for Rockford as he has at any of the Hawks practices he’s attended so far. Sure, part of that is the difference in level, but a lot of it is just that he knows almost half the guys on this team. 

He’s never been the outgoing, gregarious sort, and he hasn’t played with most of them long enough to really open up to them, but he’s still greeted warmly when he walks into the locker room. Lots of guys come over to give him a high five or a bro hug. He trades chirps with Boller about putting on weight in the offseason and chats with Pirri about a trip he went on. Shawzy runs over, messes up Brandon’s hair, and then returns to his previous conversation as if nothing had happened.

Brandon’s never had the experience of fitting in on a team so easily. It’s like his normal month-long adjustment period has already happened while he wasn’t paying attention. Even the guys he doesn’t know, he’s got a friend in common with, and Brandon’s sure he’ll get comfortable with them sooner rather than later. 

It’s good for on-ice chemistry, too. Brandon slots in effortlessly with almost every line combination the coaches try. Whether or not it’ll translate to production is another matter—Brandon knows he still has to keep working—but there’s a quiet part of him that’s almost glad for the lockout, because it means, at least for a little while, nobody’s going anywhere.

—

Brandon’s grabbed after a practice for his first interview for the IceHogs and it’s...well. He knows it probably looks fine to anybody else, but when he watches it back, he has to pause it at least three times to scrub at his face and let the waves of embarrassment roll over him. It’s like watching bad game tape; it’s necessary for getting better, but that doesn’t make it any less painful.

It’s just—he _has_ better answers to these questions, can think of them so clearly right now, but in the moment he had chewed on his lips, stared at the camera like it was going to attack him, and devoid of any other ideas, given the most bland, obvious answers possible, because at least that much media training had been beaten into him. He’s also embarrassed by how hardly any of the interview even made it onto YouTube. Brandon’s sure he was asked at least three more questions, but he must have given such nonsensical bullshit answers that they were left on the metaphorical cutting room floor. 

He also knows better than to watch this on the bus, because that’s _asking_ to be chirped, but he had been alone when he started. Brandon’s so focused on his screen that he doesn’t even notice Leds sitting next to him until the video finishes and he hears, “So was there a ghost operating the camera, or are you just that scared of public speaking?”

Brandon rips out his headphones but doesn’t look at Nick. He hopes it’s dark enough on the bus to camouflage his flush of shame. “Neither, I…” He blows out a frustrated breath and pushes his hair back. “I just gave such stupid answers ‘cause I couldn’t think of anything better at the time, y’know?”

There aren’t many guys he’d admit that to, but there’s something steadying about Nick. Sure, he’ll chirp Brandon as much as anyone else on the team, but he knows how to be serious and, more importantly, _when_. Brandon’s only known him for a few weeks, but he just seems like one of those guys you can talk to about anything.

Brandon gives himself a mental gold star for being a good judge of character when Leds doesn’t tease him about the admission of weakness. Instead, when Brandon looks up, Nick’s expression is thoughtful. “Yeah, I know,” says Nick—and Brandon realizes then that he should have talked to him about this before, because Nick is a kind of quiet guy too, so he’s probably been through this.

“Next time, try, like...make a joke or something after a question if you can’t come up with an answer. The reporter will laugh, and that’ll buy you a couple seconds to think of something better to say,” Nick suggests.

That’s...actually sort of a great idea, but— “What if I can’t think of a joke either?” Brandon asks.

“It doesn’t have to make a lot of sense,” says Nick. “Here, ask me something.”

“Uhhhh…” Brandon casts around inside his head. “What would you be if you weren’t a hockey player?” he tries. It’s cliche, but for the sake of the exercise, it’ll do.

“Twenty pounds heavier,” Nick chirps right away. Brandon snorts and rolls his eyes, and Nick grins, slow and easy. “Now your turn. How does playing in the AHL compare to juniors?” 

It’s one of the questions from the interview, Brandon thinks, which means Nick has watched it too. Great. His brain starts trying to come up with a way to say ‘everyone’s better’ without sounding like an asshole, but then he turns it off and lets his first thought fall out of his mouth: “Well, for one thing, most guys are older.” 

Nick laughs and shoves his shoulder against Brandon’s. “See, you’re a natural.”

“Thanks, Ledpipe,” says Brandon with a smile. It’s maybe a little too sincere, but Leds doesn’t call him on it, just nods and shifts in his seat, tipping his head back against the headrest.

“No problem, man. Mind if I stay up here? Somebody at the back had Mexican for their pregame meal, and…” 

He trails off, but Brandon’s got the picture. He nods, Nick thanks him, and Brandon pops his headphones back in. He decides to let Mumford lull him to sleep in favor of analyzing more of his mistakes.

—

Their third game of the season starts with a fight. They’re four seconds into the game when Boller drops his gloves, grappling with Peluso at center ice. Brandon’s never been a fighter, but he gets why hockey needs them; after a minute or so, both are off with matching five minute penalties, and the stakes of the game feel that much higher.

Not that they felt particularly low for Brandon to begin with. It’s still early, but he hasn’t had a point yet for Rockford, and he’s itching for it. Just—he needs to prove he’s got what it takes to play at this level and higher, to earn a call-up when the lockout ends if he can. 

He manages a shot late in the first, but Allen knocks it away with his blocker, and it’s quickly cleared out of the Rivermen’s zone; nothing doing. Brandon resists the urge to slam his stick into the boards when his shift ends, but only just.

Peoria ties it up a little over halfway through the second, but with five minutes left in the period Brandon’s got the puck off a neat pass from Pirri, and he’s off. He’s flying down the ice along the boards, just that half a second faster than the defenseman on his tail, when he turns in to shoot. He keeps his head down for a moment too long, which is plenty of time for the other defenseman to check him into the boards.

It’s not the hit that’s the issue; it’s a clean hit, though Brandon is surprised enough by it that it’s an easy takeaway. It should just be a frustrating loss of a scoring chance, but as Brandon gets up he feels like his left calf is on fire, and all he can think is _fuck_.

He skates off to the bench, slowly, and Coach Dent takes one look at him before jerking his thumb towards the locker rooms. Brandon doesn’t really need to be told, but he nods anyway and heads down. It’s nice that the guys on the bench give him some shouts of encouragement, but all he can really hear is his blood rushing in his ears.

It’s just so frustrating when he’s already had his career derailed by injury once. To have it happen again before he even really has a career to speak of...Brandon’s not an angry guy, as a rule, but he wants to hit something. Except with his luck he’d probably break his fucking hand and be out even longer. A trainer checks him out and tells him he thinks it’s just a strain, which is probably only a week or two off the ice, and that helps a little, but—

Brandon just wishes he’d scored one fucking point in the professional leagues first, that’s all.

—

He’s still not cleared to practice, let alone play, by the time his birthday rolls around. There's an away game against Michigan tomorrow, which means he'll be more or less on his own for it, and he doesn't really have any plans. Brandon’s sort of vaguely intending to go out with some guys from the team during their upcoming four day break, but in the meantime he’s got nothing to do but rest his stupid fucking leg.

Sure, it’s a little disappointing not getting to celebrate on his actual birthday, but he’s not six years old. He can handle it.

It does mean he’s a little surprised when there’s a knock on his door in the early afternoon. Brandon checks his phone first, but no, nobody’s texted or called, and it’s the wrong time of day for a surprise party. 

Still, Rockford is a small enough city that it’s probably not an axe murderer. Also, it’s broad daylight. Brandon opens the door to a grinning Shawzy, who’s holding a paper plate covered with plastic wrap like he’s a Stepford wife showing up for a dinner party. It makes for a very strange picture.

“Happy birthday, bro!” Andrew announces. “I mean, I know it’s technically tomorrow, but we’re gonna be on the road and stuff, and it didn’t seem right to just put it on hold, you know?” 

Well, that’s—unexpected. It takes Brandon a second to catch on, but he grins when he does. “Does this mean I have to come up with something for us to do the day before yours, now?”

“You fuckin’ better,” Shawzy chirps back. “And if it’s not something epic involving strippers and, like, a tiger, I’m gonna feel extremely let down.” 

“You’ve seen The Hangover too many times,” Brandon replies, stepping aside to let Shawzy in. Andrew rolls his eyes, but he kicks off his shoes like any good Canadian boy and then shoves the plate into Brandon’s hands. He’s splashed out for the colored saran wrap, so Brandon can’t quite tell what’s on the plate, though he can feel it’s still warm. Once he peels back the plastic, it’s—it’s chocolate chip cookies.

It’s stupid, and he’s definitely making too much of it, but chocolate chip cookies are somehow way more thoughtful than an over-iced store-bought cake. To Brandon, at least, they remind him of home and being a kid and everything birthdays are _supposed_ to be about. He can’t believe Shawzy _made_ him cookies.

He looks up at Andrew. He’s not quite sure what his face is doing, but whatever it is prompts Andrew to ramble on some more. “I know they’re not on our diet plan, like at all, but fuck that, it’s your birthday—kinda—and it doesn’t really feel like a birthday if you don’t get to eat something sweet and unhealthy that somebody else made for you, you know?” He pauses, long enough that Brandon thinks he might be done, but then he picks the thread back up again. “And don’t get too excited or anything, they’re not from scratch, I’m not Martha freakin’ Stewart, they’re like—you know the kind at the grocery store that you used to have to slice, did you know you don’t even have to do that anymore, they’re already cut in little pieces and you just have to put ‘em on a cookie sheet and bake? Really idiot proof. Must be, ‘cause they look all right I think, and I—”

“Shawzer,” Brandon interrupts. It would feel rude except for the way Andrew looks relieved to have a reason to stop talking. “Thanks, man,” he says sincerely. “That was really nice of you. I appreciate it.”

Andrew scratches the back of his neck, looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. Brandon knows he’s more used to wrestling matches and chirp-offs, but it’s the day before Brandon’s birthday, and he’s holding a plate of cookies his teammate baked for him, so sincerity’s what Shawzy’s getting.

The awkward silence stretches on for a few seconds before Andrew says, gruffly, “No problem, Saader.” 

Brandon sets the cookies down on his kitchen counter and socks Andrew gently in the shoulder. “Are you packed?” Brandon asks. 

Shawzy doesn’t comment on the subject change, just shrugs and says, “Ehhhhhhhh,” in a way that Brandon knows to mean he keeps a toothbrush, a spare phone charger, and some gym clothes in his gear bag, and as far as he’s concerned, that counts. 

“Want to hang out and play some video games, and eat these while they’re still warm?” Brandon offers.

“Sure!” says Andrew brightly. “I mean, I’ll feel bad kicking your ass on your almost-birthday, but I guess I could let you win once or twice since you’re sharing with me. I didn’t even try one yet, man.”

Brandon doesn’t believe that for a second, which goes unsaid. He raises an eyebrow, and Shawzy immediately folds. “Okay, like, I broke one as I was getting it off the cookie sheet, and I wasn’t gonna let it go to waste, but that doesn’t _count_ , that’s like baker’s dozen rules.”

“That’s not a thing,” Brandon says, picking up the cookies and leading Shawzy to the couch.

“Fuck you, how would you know? Pretty sure _I’m_ the baker in this friendship, and you’re holding the plate of gourmet cookies to prove it,” Shawzy retorts, mock-offended. He’s got a terrible poker face, though, which isn’t helped by the way he buries his feet under Brandon’s thigh as he leans over to nab a cookie off the plate.

Once Andrew’s got one, Brandon sets the plate on the coffee table, just out of his reach, because if he can’t be a bit of an asshole on his almost-birthday, then when can he? He takes one too as he waits for the TV to load up the game. The chocolate chips are still soft and gooey.

—

When Brandon got injured, one of his first moves was to upgrade his cable package so he’d get the station that aired all of Rockford’s games. He’s watching when a physical game against Lake Erie turns into a five-on-five brawl—alone in his apartment, yelling at the TV like any good sports fan.

He actually stands up when Bordeleau jumps Oly from behind, shouting, “You cowardly—” but before he can even say the expletive, he’s groaning, “ _Shawzy_.”

Brandon can’t _blame_ him—jumping a guy like that is a shitty thing to do, and he’s already been playing with Shawzy long enough to know that when somebody messes with his teammates, there’s no holding him back, whether he’s on the ice or not. Still, with his record, it’s not going to be good.

Brooksie jumps the boards too, though Brandon isn't sure if that makes it better or worse. It takes the officials another couple of minutes to calm everybody down and get them sent off to their respective locker rooms, at which point the announcers start excitedly replaying and recapping the fight.

Brandon picks up his phone and texts Andrew a single fist emoji.

—

There’s no answer from Andrew during the game, which makes sense, but he also hasn’t responded by the time it’s over. Brandon gives him an hour, which is probably enough time to get reamed by the coaching staff, and then drives over to his place.

Shawzy answers the door, but he looks absolutely murderous. His body’s tense like he’s still primed to throw a punch, and he bites out, “ _What_ , Saader? I’m not really in the mood for—” He cuts himself off, expression darkening even more.

With most people, Brandon’s manners would kick in and he’d be apologizing and on his way home in two seconds flat, but he’s pretty confident he knows Andrew well enough to know he doesn’t want to be alone right now. “For what? Kicking my ass at Call of Duty?” says Brandon mildly. “I brought beer,” he adds, holding up the six pack in his left hand.

Some of the fight goes out of Andrew—he’s still tense, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to commit homicide anymore. “Come in,” he says grudgingly, stepping aside. 

They play for two hours and drink their way through the entire six pack before Shawzy slumps like his strings have been cut. “Thought you were coming over here to tell me what an idiot I was,” he admits.

Brandon pauses the game and gives him a sidelong look. “Then why did you let me in?”

He’s betting on it being the beer, but Shawzy shrugs a shoulder and doesn’t look at him. “I don’t know,” he starts, then runs his hand through his hair. “I guess, you’re a pretty quiet dude, so I figure whenever you got something to say I should shut up and listen, ‘cause it’s probably gonna be smart, important, or both.”

That’s—actually the nicest thing anybody’s said to Brandon in a long time. He would reach out and cuff Shawzy in the shoulder or something, to say thanks, but he seems like he’s still feeling kind of prickly, so Brandon keeps his hands to himself. “I didn’t see any reason to yell at you. I’m sure the coaches did enough of that.” 

“Understatement of the century, bro,” says Andrew with a dark, self-deprecating laugh. “Just hoping it’s not a long suspension, ‘cause you know I’m gonna be doing bag skates every fucking day of it.” 

“You were sticking up for Oly.” 

“I’d do it again,” Shawzy says fiercely, like he’s daring Brandon to argue with him.

Brandon doesn’t take the bait. Yeah, he groaned when he watched it happen, and he gets why the coaches are mad, but yelling at Shawzy over this isn’t going to change the kind of player he is, the kind of _person_ he is: scrappy, hotheaded, but loyal to a fault.

He lets Andrew’s statement hang in the air between them for a second, then sighs and nods at him. Instantly, Andrew grins and leans over to give Brandon a vicious noogie. “We’ve got to get you fighting, man. They’d _need_ reinforcements from the bench to take you down!” Andrew crows. 

Brandon laughs, grabbing Shawzy around the middle and shoving him off. “Why would I want to do that when you have so much fun fighting my battles for me?” 

—

Brandon looks down at his hand of cards. It’s not _terrible_ ; he’s got a decent shot at two tricks, but nothing else, and if someone else leads the ace it could be difficult to make his bid. “One,” he decides. 

“Three!” Shawzy follows immediately. Leds and Boller groan and pass. That sort of hubris tends to mean Shawzy either wins big or loses big when they play cards. There’s no question he’ll get his suit of choice now, but there’s a good chance he could end up ten or fifteen points behind everybody else right from the start. 

“What suit?” Brandon asks. 

“Diamonds,” says Andrew. “And I don’t need any,” he adds, gesturing at the deck. Huh, maybe he _can_ make his bid, then.

“Sitting out,” Leds says when Brandon turns to him. 

Boller shuffles his cards around in his hand and then sighs. “Sure, why not. I’ll take two.” 

Brandon trades Boller two cards from the deck for his two discards, then discards a couple of low clubs himself and takes two new ones. One of them is decidedly mediocre, but the other is the ace of diamonds, and when combined with the king and queen he already holds...He can’t help raising an eyebrow at Shawzy. If that bet was meant to be a bluff, he can consider it called.

Shawzy leads with the jack of diamonds. Boller follows suit with a four, and Brandon has no choice but to take the trick. He plays his queen; Andrew groans. 

Brandon considers his hand. If he were completely ruthless, he’d lead with the ace and then the king, running everybody out of trump cards, but he isn’t. This is just a friendly game of Snarples, and it’s probably best for everyone if it doesn’t turn into 52-card pickup inside of the first round. 

He leads the ten of spades. Shawzy trumps in with a six of diamonds, and Boller follows suit with a five of spades, so Shawzy takes it, with a cheer. 

After that, though, he leads another low diamond, so Brandon has to take it with his king. Then he leads his ace, at which point Andrew kicks him under the table and glares furiously at him. “Are you kidding me? You had ace, king, _and_ queen of diamonds and you bet _one_?” 

Brandon raises his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t have that when I bet!” he protests honestly. Shawzy makes a noise of disgust and throws down his four of diamonds. Leds and Boller laugh; they laugh even harder when Boller takes the last trick, which means Shawzy gets punted ten points.

“I thought for sure with _five fucking diamonds_ I could get three tricks, just from trumping in, but _noooo_ , somebody had to be an asshole and bet low, throw us all off,” Shawzy gripes as he shuffles. Nick coughs into his elbow, it sounds suspiciously like ‘sore loser’. 

Brandon pulls his legs back just in time, because Shawzy kicks out, and Boller winces, then says, “You missed, dumbass,” and kicks him back—probably a little harder than necessary, because Andrew howls in pain. Leds coughs again; this time it sounds like ‘diver’. 

“Coming down with something, Leds?” says Brandon mildly, still keeping his legs well out of the way. Shawzy finishes shuffling and starts to deal with way more vehemence than necessary. Boller is still laughing at him. 

Despite the temper tantrums, which are almost guaranteed to get worse as the night goes on, it’s really nice to just be able to kick back with the guys for an evening. Their schedule’s been crazy lately, but they’ve got a few days off now, and they won’t have this much again until Christmas.

No one’s talking about the lockout, and it feels kind of deliberate. Rumor had it that the two sides were getting close a few days ago, but then it all fell apart, and now nobody knows if there’s a shot at even a shortened season. If you’d told Brandon that in September, he would have been disappointed, but now he thinks he’d be okay with it.

Brandon picks up his cards. He’s got ace-king-jack of spades, and when he smiles at his hand, Shawzy starts swearing a blue streak about how unfair it is and how he’s _definitely_ cheating.

—

The NHL and its affiliate leagues have a very effective informal phone tree; a new CBA is reached early in the morning on Sunday the 6th and by practice later that day, the news has already hit Rockford’s locker room. It’s all anyone can talk about—who’s getting called up to Chicago, who’s getting called up to Rockford to replace them, who’s staying where they are…

Brandon keeps his mouth shut and his head out of the clouds. He wants it, he wants it _bad_ , and he thinks he’s ready, if the way he’s played over the last two months since getting healthy is any indication—but it’s not up to him.

It takes until Wednesday for the CBA to be officially ratified, but guys start trickling into Chicago as early as Monday. Krugs, Boller, and Shawzy are some of the first to clean out their lockers; Leddy’s not far behind.

Shawzy texts him, _Theyll call u up too_ , and then _Theyre fucking nuts if they dont_ , but that’s easy for him to say. Brandon doesn’t reply.

Smitty’s still here, and so are Morin and Pirri. Brandon doesn’t—none of them are guys Brandon has been especially close to, but they might have to become friends like that if this is how it’s going to be for this season. Brandon pushes down his disappointment; they lose to Grand Rapids. Two nights later he makes himself use it; he gets a goal and three assists, and this time, they beat Grand Rapids. He keeps using it. They beat Milwaukee on his goal in overtime.

He’s just going to throw himself into practice. They’ve got almost a week before their next game, and that is all Brandon is focusing on, not the looming Hawks training camp or the start of the NHL season. This is the team he’s on right now, and this is the team he’s going to play for.

Then there’s a phone call when Brandon is on the bus back from Milwaukee, telling him to pack his things and come up to Chicago. He’s being recalled. Training camp starts the next day.

Brandon exhales, more relieved than he wants to admit. He asks them to change his number to 20, what he’s been using with the IceHogs. Now he’s earned it.

—

It takes a while for Brandon to pin down the way he’s feeling as nervous. It’s—it’s weird, is what it is, that he’s feeling so much more than the usual pre-game jitters. He’s played for this team before; he’s played with most of these guys before—and this game is just a regular-season, run-of-the-mill one. It’s nothing to be nervous about.

Part of it, he realizes, is that he just wants to prove himself so _badly_. He’s already been sent down twice—the second time because of the lockout, sure, and it was better to play than sit around doing nothing for months, but it still stung. Now he’s up, Brandon wants to _stay_.

Not without a little bitterness, Brandon thinks in the direction of the universe in general that hey, he’s got the message about pride and falls, thanks. Every time he thinks he’s doing well, it seems like it gets yanked out from under him: going late in the draft, getting sent back to Saginaw, Saginaw getting knocked out of the playoffs under his leadership, the lockout.... Each time he deals with it a little better, and he knows he _could_ handle the crushing disappointment if he had to go back to Rockford while Shawzy and Ledpipe and Boller and the rest stay here, but that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to.

What Brandon wants is to stay here, with the Hawks, for good this time. He knows he’s good enough, can feel it in his bones. Now all he has to do is make sure everybody else knows that too. So no pressure.

He can feel frustration at himself mounting alongside the nerves now. Just as certainly as he knows he’s good, Brandon also knows better than to let himself get this far into his head right before a game. That’s what fucked him up so spectacularly last October. Brandon knuckles his eyes, silently willing himself to focus on now, but it’s not really working.

“Hey, Saader,” someone says, then they tap his right skate with their stick. Brandon looks up, a bit startled at the interruption, and then he has to swallow an extremely undignified sound once he realizes that it’s Patrick Kane, of all people.

He can’t help it; Brandon still feels a little starstruck around Kaner. He feels starstruck around a lot of the guys, to greater or lesser degrees, but with Kane, it’s—he’s just so good. Brandon was even on his line for a little bit, back in April, but they never talked much (which Brandon thinks is mostly because Kane’s a lot quieter in person than the rumour mill would have a guy believe). 

But now Kaner’s here, chatting with him before a game. Brandon can’t imagine what he could possibly want. He tries running his mind through various scenarios, but before he comes up with anything even vaguely plausible, Kaner taps his stick against Brandon’s skate again. 

“You got this. Get outta your head, just get out there and play,” he says. It’s simple advice, nothing Brandon hasn’t heard from a thousand people on a thousand game days, nothing he wasn’t trying to tell himself less than a minute ago, but Kaner says it with unshakeable confidence. It’s like he’s telling Brandon something as simple and obviously true as the color of the jerseys they’re wearing.

When Patrick Kane tells you you’ve got it in a tone like that, you must fucking have it. There are all sorts of stupid things in Brandon’s head trying to claw their way out; to prevent any of them winning, he keeps his mouth shut and just nods.

Fortunately, that appears to be enough for Kaner, who cracks a lopsided smile. “Good. See you out there.” And he’s gone.

—

The pep talk from Kaner isn’t, like, hockey magic. It makes Brandon feel less nervous, but he doesn’t suddenly start putting up points like crazy. The coaches and the guys tell him he’s doing everything right, that he just needs to keep creating scoring chances and some pucks will find the back of the net eventually—but fuck, it’s hard to be patient.

—

The flight from Calgary to San Jose is a long one, which always means a meal. Today’s includes tomato soup. Brandon tucks his napkin into his collar before he starts to eat, because he always does when he’s eating soup unless he’s somewhere fancy that would frown on napkins anywhere but laps. That goes double for soup on an airplane, where turbulence could cause a spill—and triple for an airplane flight where he’s seated next to Shawzy. A team dinner is never complete until Shawzy’s knocked at least one thing over with an exuberant gesture.

At least his lack of grace is improving Brandon’s reflexes. At last night’s pregame meal, when Andrew knocked his wrist into his glass, Brandon actually managed to catch it before it spilled, which earned him a round of applause from their teammates. 

Shawzy’s been buried in a book for the whole flight, which has kept him uncharacteristically quiet and restrained, but that’s due to change, because once he puts it away to eat, he does a double take at Brandon and starts laughing hysterically.

Immediately, Brandon feels self-conscious. He doesn’t have a mirror or anything, but his hand goes to his face and hair anyway—he’s barely even started eating, there’s no way he’s got food somewhere stupid.

Boller saves him the trouble of trying to figure out what’s going on in Shawzy’s head by kicking Andrew under the table. “What’re you laughing at, Mutt?” 

“Ow, fuck you!” Andrew complains, leaning down to rub at his shin. “I’m laughing at Saader—man, look at him, tucking in his napkin like he’s Grandpa at the buffet.”

This seems, to Brandon, like a weird thing to get chirped for, which always makes it easier for him to form a comeback. “Sorry I don’t want to show up in San Jose with my entire meal on my shirt,” he replies calmly.

Shawzy rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say it was a _bad_ thing, it’s just—you’re _supposed_ to be a mess like that, you’re twenty.” Brandon doesn’t point out that Andrew is a whole fifteen months older than he is, because they’ve been down that road before, and it never leads anywhere productive. 

“Is he really? I mean, have we seen proof of that?” Patrick Sharp chimes in from halfway across the plane. He must have ears like a bat, or possibly some kind of selective hearing for people who need a chirping assist. 

“Point,” says Bicks, picking up the thread. “I mean, kid’s practically my size.”

“I think he could take you, Bicks,” says Duncan Keith, and for fuck’s sake, is the entire team going to get in on this conversation? Brandon is perfectly good at chirping, but he sort of hates being the center of attention in this way, when it’s people he doesn’t really know yet, when he doesn’t know his role, when all he does know is that he could be sent back down at any time so he’d better leave everything on the ice every game and hope it’s enough. 

“Duncs is right, if that testosterone’s any indication—weren’t you all clean shaven this morning when we got on the plane?” Sharpy asks, rubbing his own cheek with the back of his knuckles.

Brandon shrugs, which is when Shawzy says, “Oh, that’s nothing, you should have seen his Movember goatee,” and Ledpipe follows that with, “You can, I have a picture on my phone,” and Brandon abruptly wants to kill them both. Which is unfortunate, since they’re probably his closest friends on the team, and he’d definitely be lonely with them gone, but sometimes extreme situations call for tragic decisions to be made.

Leddy’s phone is passed around (Brandon regrets letting him take the before and after pictures he’d begged for), to much applause and mock reverence from the team. 

“Yeah, there’s no way you’re twenty. Acting like you do, looking like you do—that shit’s better than most playoff beards on this team, unfortunately.” Bicks shakes his head, mock-disgusted.

Sharpy, meanwhile, looks like he’s having some sort of epiphany. Brandon hasn’t known him long, but he already knows to be wary of that look. “Man-Child,” Sharpy says as though it’s the word of God. He gets a few strange looks, so he continues, “His nickname. Youngest player on the team, looks and acts like a full grown man. It’s perfect.”

It’s...not bad. Brandon was expecting much, much worse if anyone let Sharpy have a say in it—not that he was really expecting a nickname beyond ‘Saader’ at all. Hoping, maybe, but not expecting.

The noises from the guys are generally approving, although Bicks is ribbing Sharpy for looking so pleased with himself. “He’s your rookie, Jonny, what do you say?” Duncan calls towards the back of the plane. There’s no verbal answer, but after a couple seconds, Jonny raises his hand in a thumbs up.

If getting a nickname felt good, Jonny tacitly claiming him as his rookie feels amazing, and Brandon can’t help grinning down at his soup. He’s been told he has promise by people way further up the decision-making chain than Jonny, but he’s heard that all his life, and so far it’s just meant a while between the first shoe dropping and the second. The captain looking out for him...that means something a bit more tangible. 

The conversation breaks up after that, guys returning to their meals and friends seated nearby, but Nick leans behind him to ruffle Brandon’s hair. “Man-Child, huh?” he asks, but he sounds proud.

“MC for short!” Shawzy adds, elbowing Brandon in the side. It was probably meant to be affectionate; most violent things Shawzy does are. 

—

When they take the ice for warmups two nights later, Shawzy is at his most annoying. He’s skating up to everybody, looking for a few shoves, a little attention—or something, Brandon’s never fully understood what goes on in that head. He can see some of the other guys rolling their eyes, though, so he figures it’s probably time to step in as the Shawzysitter.

It’s sort of become his default role on the team. Shawzy never really irritates Brandon, and he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s just that he’s used to it after half a season in Rockford, or maybe he’s developed some sort of coping mechanism since the compressed season means they’re on the road (and thus, rooming together) way more frequently than they normally would be. Either way, Brandon’s got a good eye for whenever Shawzy is pushing it, and by unspoken agreement, he steps in and distracts him.

He skates up behind Andrew and hooks him around the middle, tugging him away from where he’s been bothering Hoss. Andrew turns around and fakes like he’s going to drop his gloves; Hoss gives Brandon a nod of thanks over Andrew’s head.

Brandon laughs at Andrew outright and taps him in the leg with his stick. “Save that for the game, eh?” Shawzy keeps his gloves on, but mimes like he’s a boxer, throwing a couple punches in Brandon’s general direction.

There’s a couple of loose pucks near the blue line that give Brandon an idea. He fakes left, then skates right and neatly snags them both. He flicks one to Shawzy, who catches it on his tape automatically, then stickhandles with the other one for a second. “Last one to score’s a loser,” shouts Andrew, cheating because he’s already skating in the direction of the goal.

Brandon takes off after him—he’s a bit faster, but Shawzy shoots from about thirty feet away, and it goes wide. Brandon boos him, winds up, but misses the puck entirely because Shawzy grabs his jersey. They’re both laughing; Brandon shoves him off, then regains possession, skates closer, and puts it away before Andrew can foul him again.

“Loooooooser,” he calls to Shawzy as he skates by. Shawzy’s got another puck; he nets a beautiful slapshot, and Brandon checks him into the boards. It’s possibly the stupidest warm-up he’s ever done, but fucking around with Andrew—he feels loose, calm, like this is just a game of shinny with friends back home. 

—

They’re down two halfway through the first, and it’s not looking great, but Brandon still feels relaxed. He can see the give-and-go clear as day as they slide into position: Tazer passes to Seabs, Seabs drives towards the net, and when two Sharks converge on him, he shoots to Brandon. Brandon just has to tip it in. Easy.

The goal horn blares. It feels a little bit like the most important thing he’s ever done. Brandon pumps his fist and the guys converge on him: Hossa’s the first to tap his helmet and offer congratulations, but Jonny’s the second one skating into his side. “Nice one, Man-Child! Earning that nickname, eh?” says Jonny with a smile and a pat on the back. 

Brandon’s not going to let Jonny down. He can’t say that out loud, because he’d be chirped into next week—just grins at Jonny instead—but he decides it right there and then. He also decides that fucking with Shawzy during warmups is going to be added to his pregame rituals, because if something that stupid works, you keep doing it.

—

When the rest of the guys are around, Brandon has to make more of an effort to keep Shawzy’s chaos to a dull roar—but since he doesn’t find it annoying, when they’re relaxing in a hotel room on the road he generally just lets the noise wash over him, and when he can feel Andrew getting restless he finds a way to distract him. Easy.

A jog around the block, a game of Mario Kart, and a quick wrestling match have all worked well so far, but today Andrew seems worse than usual, almost vibrating out of his skin with it, and Brandon doubts those methods are going to do the job. He’s multitasking, flipping channels idly while he wracks his brain for ways to tire Andrew out a little, get him to calm down—but nothing’s coming to him, and it’s Andrew who speaks first. 

“Brandon. Saader. MC. I’ve just had the greatest—holy shit, I’m a _genius_ ,” he crows, actually rolling over on his bed, like a hyperactive puppy. 

One of the many times he earns his nickname. Brandon doesn’t say anything, because he knows Shawzy’s not waiting for a response, but he does raise an eyebrow to show he’s listening.

“ _We should prank Jonny,_ ” Andrew declares. 

Slowly, Brandon turns to look at him, and raises his other eyebrow. There are lots of things he could say to that, things like ‘Are you crazy?’ or ‘We’re rookies, idiot’ or ‘I’m not entirely sure that rumor about the guy Tazer killed with his eyes isn’t based in fact’. He doesn’t say them, because Andrew knows them already, and also Andrew’s not done talking yet.

“No, I mean, come on, like, he and Sharpy are like _this_ ,” Andrew crosses his fingers and waves them at Brandon, “And Sharpy does nothing but chirp and prank him all the time, y’know, so obviously he doesn’t _mind_ it—” Andrew cuts himself off with a grin, and grabs a throw pillow to hug dramatically. “Plus, we _all_ know you’re the Captain’s _favorite,_ ” he sing-songs, “Precious Man-Child who can do no wrong in Tazer’s eyes—”

At this point Brandon is obligated to throw at least three pillows at Shawzy, and so he does. He doesn’t make the rules. 

Predictably, Andrew finds this hilarious and cracks up as he bats away the onslaught. “Gotta consummate your bromance one of these days, and how better to start than by breaking into his room?” he chirps further, always the instigator.

This is getting ridiculous, not least because Shawzy is _loud_ and Tazer’s room is _right next door_. It’s simple logic: Brandon has to walk over to Andrew’s bed and put him in a headlock. Andrew’s scrappy, but Brandon has two inches and twenty pounds on him, and Andrew’s laughing too hard to really fight back anyway.

They tussle on the bed for a couple of minutes, which ends with Brandon sitting on Andrew’s chest, pinning his arms with his knees. Andrew taps out, like this is pro wrestling, and as soon as he gets his breath back, he’s laughing again. Brandon was clearly right about the usual tactics not cutting it this time.

“But really, bro, come on, it’ll be _hilarious_. He’ll get that face—you know, like the time when Shooter switched out his practice jerseys with Kaner ones, and even Q laughed, it was amazing.” Shawzy looks almost dreamlike at the memory. “Plus, I mean.” Now he’s got that determined look in his eye; the one he gets right before he skates off to fight somebody twice his size, and there’s a warning bell going off in Brandon’s head. “I love Sharpy, but like, his pranks are _weak sauce_ sometimes. We can do better than that, eh?”

Brandon knows better. He knows he should just let Shawzy talk himself up about this and then make sure he doesn’t go through with it—but as much as he gets chirped about being an old man in disguise, he really is twenty, and he only has so much willpower. 

“One time when I was in Saginaw, the guys took apart our goalie’s toilet,” he starts. Andrew turns to look at him properly, grinning like it’s Christmas morning and Brandon is his present.

Brandon sends a mental preemptive apology in Jonny’s general direction before continuing. This is going to go so, so badly. 

—

The seven-game homestand after that means that there’s no chance for Jonny to retaliate immediately, other than the objectively weak second-dinner order (which Andrew ate happily). Against his better judgment, Brandon’s lulled into a sense of security. All those stories about Jonny’s temper and competitiveness—maybe he’s grown out of that, now. Maybe he’s just going to let them be rookies playing dumb pranks, and not escalate this into an all-out war.

It’s made extremely clear that Brandon was wrong when he and Andrew get back to their hotel room after dinner, intending to watch a movie and relax ahead of tomorrow’s game against the Blues, only to find that the room smells—weird. Salty, a bit, almost like…

It doesn’t take a genius to realize it’s coming from Shawzy’s bed, because it’s made, and it wasn’t when they left. Andrew grabs a corner of the comforter and tugs, but instead of the covers folding back as normal, they only move about six inches.

“What the f—” he starts, pulling harder, which is suddenly enough to reveal that his sheets have been glued together with peanut butter.

“Holy shit!” Shawzy yells. He’s not angry, though; he’s laughing hysterically, and after a moment, Brandon is too. Andrew sort of half-sits, half-collapses onto Brandon’s bed, and Brandon’s not far behind him. They laugh until they can’t breathe, periodically pointing at Shawzy’s bed and setting each other off again. 

“Stop, stop,” Brandon moans, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes.

Andrew shoves at his shoulder. “I can’t fucking believe _Jonathan Toews_ put _peanut butter_ in _my_ bed,” he says eagerly, like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

Brandon rolls his eyes and sits up a little bit more, now that he’s got his breath back and is physically able to. “You know, I bet that’s why Sharpy came over and sat with us after dinner,” he says.

Instantly, Andrew’s expression darkens. He sits up too. “To _keep us busy_! Fuck, you’re right—that _traitor_. He’s dead to me.”

“It makes sense that Jonny would recruit him. They’ve played together for like five years, and he’s an A to Jonny’s C,” Brandon points out.

" _Traitor_ ,” Shawzy repeats, even more bitterly.

At least eighty percent of Shawzy’s reaction is put on, but that doesn’t make it less entertaining. It’s a fight for Brandon to keep his expression neutral; he’s certain that in his current state, Andrew would see a smile as nothing short of treason.

“You know what this means, don’t you, Saader?” says Andrew seriously, turning to face Brandon head on.

Brandon bites the inside of his cheek and manages to keep from smiling as he shakes his head. It’s just so funny how Shawzy’s taking this so seriously now, when a moment ago he was so delighted by the prank. He’s—he’s ridiculous, is what he is, and Brandon is only so strong.

“It means we can’t trust anyone. _Anyone_. It’s you and me against the world, buddy,” Andrew swears, extending his hand for Brandon to shake.

Brandon does, feeling halfway between a kid playing a spy game and an actual spy. He gives up on fighting the smile now, and it takes over his face in seconds, but that’s fine, because Andrew’s grinning too.

“I love that he automatically assumed that it was me who deserved revenge, too! When the whole thing was _your_ idea,” Shawzy teases, letting go of Brandon’s hand to mess up his hair.

“Well, it was _your_ idea to prank him in the first place,” Brandon feels it’s important to point out, but Shawzy’s talking over him before he’s even finished his sentence.

“I had the—the impulse, you know, but it was your genius plan with the toilet! Man, he shouted at that thing for like, five minutes, I think it was the best five minutes of my life!” he says, like Brandon wasn’t right there with him when it happened. “But see, this is the best, ‘cause you’re the mastermind and I’m the fall guy—he’ll still think he can trust you, and you can use that to get in behind enemy lines, find out his weaknesses so we can exploit them!” Andrew’s punching his own palm now, already revved up.

It would probably be good if Brandon talked him down a little here. “What do you think this is, a James Bond movie? _Enemy lines_ , man, really?” he says dryly.

Shawzy goes to mess up his hair again, but this time Brandon’s quicker and grabs his wrist before he can. They grapple for a minute, but neither of them is really trying, and it doesn’t take long for Shawzy to get a hand free to pinch Brandon’s cheek. “Awww, you just want _credit_ for your brilliance, is that it? Well, don’t worry, ‘cause I’ve got an idea to get revenge _and_ show Jonny whose side you’re really on.” 

—

Which is how Brandon ends up in the hallway ten minutes later with Andrew Shaw and a trash can full of water. They’re both trying hard not to laugh or make any suspicious noises; they’re doing a very poor job of it. Brandon’s already had to elbow Shawzy in the side twice, and he nearly dropped the can the second time.

After that, he shoves it into Brandon’s hands and hisses, “Fine then, you do it! You got steadier hands than me anyway.”

It’s true. Brandon kicks _ass_ at Jenga.

He takes a deep breath and kneels down slowly. Shawzy’s hovering, chin almost resting on Brandon’s shoulder, but Brandon is focused on the task at hand. Very deliberately, he leans the trash can against Jonny’s door, making minute adjustments to the angle to ensure that it’ll stay there until the door’s opened, at which time it’ll fall just right to soak Jonny’s feet. 

“Come _on_ , Grandpa, we don’t have all day,” Andrew mutters in his ear. 

Brandon adjusts the can again, just a few degrees further to the right. “You told me to do it, so don’t complain,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

Andrew huffs an exasperated sigh, even more directly into his ear, but other than that, he does shut up. A few more seconds (okay, a minute) of fussing, and Brandon’s satisfied enough to slowly pull his hands away. The trash can stays in place.

Shawzy cheers very quietly. They both stand up. “Okay, so, you knock, he opens the door, we run back to our room and throw the deadbolt, right?” Shawzy confirms. Brandon nods and takes a step back, so he’s at normal knocking distance (and out of the way of the water). Andrew barely adjusts; Brandon can feel him vibrating with excitement. It might be distracting if it wasn’t a daily occurrence.

With a deep breath, Brandon raps on Jonny’s door. “Who is it?” Jonny calls out. Jonny’s room does have a peephole, which would be smarter than just asking, but Brandon doesn’t feel like it would be to their advantage to point that out.

“It’s Saader,” he replies, proud of the way his voice stays calm and doesn’t betray them. 

He does feel a little guilty for the way Jonny opens up at once, trusting him enough to not even ask why he’s here. It’s worth it for the shocked and immediately furious look on his face as his feet get soaked—although Brandon only gets the barest glimpse before Andrew fists his hand in the back of his shirt and pulls him down the hallway, screaming, “RUN, SAADER, _RUN_!” 

There are other guests in this hotel who are not a part of the Blackhawks organization, and for them, Brandon feels very sorry.

It’s a good thing that Andrew’s reflexes kicked in, because Jonny gives chase, but they’re too fast for him (also, it doesn’t take that long to run to the room next door). Jonny pounds on the door, but obviously they ignore it, even though they’re both pressed up against it.

Brandon’s grinning at Andrew, and Andrew’s grinning back, and they’re both flushed with victory. It feels like he’s just scored a goal, or maybe even better—okay, not better than an _important_ goal, like an OT game winner, but better than a regular one. Shawzy must be feeling the same way, because he launches himself at Brandon’s chest, just like he does when they celly. 

Andrew always hugs like he’s trying to squeeze the life out of you, but it’s different when they’re not wearing pads. Out in the hallway, they can hear Jonny stomping away, swearing, and Andrew gives in to the urge to laugh—a delighted and slightly evil cackle of a laugh, his head tipped back from the joy of it. 

Brandon can’t look away. It feels momentous, somehow, a sense of something important _shifting_ overlaying his childlike glee at getting one over on Jonny. He can’t imagine what it is, and he doesn’t have time to figure it out, because Andrew is dragging him over to the wall that their room shares with Jonny’s so they can press their ears to it and listen in.

As they listen, Andrew doesn’t move his arm from where it’s settled around Brandon, so Brandon doesn’t move his arm from around Andrew either. That seems important too, but Brandon is too focused on stifling his own laughter so they can hear Jonny stomping around, swearing and turning on the faucet, obviously trying to get them back. 

He files the observation away for later, when he has time to think it through. Brandon’s great at compartmentalizing, and right now, all he wants to feel is present in this moment, alive with joy and companionship. 

—

Brandon expects to get some time to unpack that odd feeling from the other night on the quick flight from Saint Louis to Chicago. Most of the team is horsing around, still riding high off the shutout (it’s their third of the month, which is exciting enough, but it always feels extra good to embarrass the Blues on their home ice), but Leddy is passed out in the window seat next to him, so there’s nobody to poke fun at Brandon if he zones out for a while.

He’s comfortable, ready to start breaking it down in his head just like he would a play, but—“Saader!” Shawzy shouts, exactly as he does when they’re on the ice together. Instead of a puck, this time Brandon receives a pass of Shawzy himself—that is, Sharpy carries him down the aisle and drops him unceremoniously into the seat across from Brandon.

“Keep him busy, eh, Man-Child? It’s hard to get a nap in when he’s talking your ear off,” Patrick says.

“I’m _right here_ ,” Shawzy protests. Proving Sharpy right, the noise wakes Nick up, but he just opens one eye, gives Andrew an appropriately judgmental look with it, and adjusts his headphones. 

“Yeah, I’ve got it. We know you need your beauty sleep, Shooter,” says Brandon, smiling. 

Sharpy messes up his hair, which means he got the chirp right. “And don’t you forget it. Someone has to represent this team on the Chicago’s Most Beautiful list, and none of you ugly bastards are even close.”

With that, Sharpy makes his exit, presumably to go moisturize or something and then actually take that nap. He wasn’t kidding about Andrew; he’s all hyped up again, like given his choice, he’d be running up and down the aisle. 

“How do you have this much energy, Shawzy? We barely got any sleep the last two nights,” Brandon points out. After the peanut butter incident, they had stayed awake much longer than they should have, trying to hear if Jonny was going to find a better way to get his revenge—and then the celebrations after the game, which brought their point streak to 20, lasted through three bars.

Andrew kicks him under the table. Brandon flinches, but then steps on both of Andrew’s feet before he can do it again. “We shut out the Blues, _and_ I got a goal, man, how am I supposed to be chill right now?” 

Brandon can feel Shawzy’s feet jiggling restlessly underneath his own. It should almost definitely be irritating, but all he feels is fond. He tamps it down and manages an eye roll instead. “Maybe you should take up meditation.”

Shawzy huffs. “Then what good would I be? A rat who doesn’t talk all the time? That’s why I’m here, bro.” 

And that’s—Brandon knows it’s just a self-deprecating joke, knows he’s supposed to just brush it off, but he remembers Andrew's draft history, that Andrew knows probably even better than he does what it feels like to be told your best isn't good enough, and he just—he wants to make _sure_ Andrew knows that isn’t true. 

He lets Andrew’s feet go so he can a leaf out of Andrew’s book and kick him in the shin. “Yeah, because most rats kick off their NHL careers with such a bang that they inspire trending topics on Twitter. Q’s definitely just keeping you around because you can’t shut up.”

Andrew looks surprised, and then—speculative, like Brandon has a puzzle on his forehead. It’s just for a few seconds; then he grins down at the table and kicks Brandon back more gently than Brandon had believed him capable of being. “Thanks, bro. I’d like to return the favor, say something all nice and sappy about you, but the only reason you’re on the roster is ‘cause you’re scary looking,” he chirps.

That fond feeling warms Brandon’s chest again, just in time for the pilot to tell them to prepare for landing. He’s really got to find a time to think this through; it’s getting out of hand. Something must be seriously wrong if he’s getting this happy about Shawzy’s hyperactivity and pathetic excuses for chirps.

—

As he often does, Brandon ends up at Shawzy and Leddy’s after they eke out another win, this time against the Blue Jackets in overtime. He should feel tired; they’re playing _all the time_ , but he just feels—amped up, like he could play another three periods if he wanted to, no sweat.

At least tomorrow is a travel day, so if he ends up crashing on their couch after playing video games until three in the morning, he won’t be miserable. 

Tonight is—weird, though. It’s weird because Brandon’s high energy, and Shawzy’s _always_ high energy, and Leds is as chill as ever but he’s only one man. What started out as unwinding after a game with a beer and a game of Mario Kart has turned into an intense tournament, and when Shawzy wants to win he always fights dirty. 

Brandon’s too busy focusing on the screen to see him coming until after Shawzy has already climbed into his lap. “Oh, _come on_ ,” he groans, leaning up and over Andrew’s shoulder to see. Andrew is cackling like a madman, leaning back and forth as he turns just to fuck with Brandon further. Brandon _should_ just stand up and dump him off, but he’s focused, okay, and if Shawzy’s stupid trick sends him careening off the track he’s gonna be pissed.

It doesn’t; he does finish, but Shawzy finishes first, because he’d be a much better Mario Kart player than Brandon even if he didn’t cheat. Brandon groans, slumping back against the couch, and Shawzy twists around in his lap to ruffle Brandon’s hair. “Next time, Man-Child, you’ll get me next time,” he teases, then stretches and gets up, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll even get you a pity beer, ‘cause I’m benevolent as shit,” he announces.

“How do you even know that word?” Brandon shouts after him.

“Fuck you, I read!” Shawzy calls back. 

Brandon rolls his eyes. Nick sighs, from the other end of the couch, and Brandon jumps; he’d almost forgotten Nick was there.

“This is getting sa—pathetic, Saader,” he says in a low voice.

“Thanks for avoiding the pun,” says Brandon automatically, and then he mentally rewinds. “Wait, what?”

“You and—” Nick breaks off to jerk his thumb at the kitchen. “He’s turning it up to eleven, and I can’t tell if you’re ignoring it on purpose or if you actually are that dense.” 

Brandon wants to say he has no idea what Nick’s talking about, but—unbidden, the other night in the hotel room springs to his mind, Andrew hugging him and something warm sparking in his chest. Still, what Nick is suggesting here is— “It’s _Shawzy_ ,” Brandon points out. 

“Yeah, it’s Shawzy, and you don’t see him sitting on my lap—or me letting him.”

“I didn’t _let him_ , he—”

“You’re twice his size, Brandon, you could have thrown him off in two seconds if you wanted to,” says Nick flatly. He’s not really _wrong_ , but he’s—Brandon doesn’t know, but Nick’s got the wrong end of things, or something, and he wants to argue with him, but then Shawzy comes back from the kitchen with two beers. He sits back down in the middle of the couch and hands one to Brandon, then opens the other himself.

“None for me?” says Leds, raising his eyebrows at Brandon when Andrew’s back is turned. 

“Nope,” says Andrew. “Saader let me sit on him _and_ kick his ass at Mario Kart. He’s the better bro.” To punctuate this, Andrew twists on the couch and drops his feet in Brandon’s lap.

Brandon should really push them off. He should chirp Shawzy about how bad they smell, go to the bathroom, anything; leaving them there is just proving Nick right, and by the way Nick is looking at him, he knows it. 

He doesn’t push them off.

—

Brandon puts it out of his mind for the next few days while they take a quick road trip to beat Detroit in a shootout. But Andrew kicks Nick out of the seat next to him on the plane back to Chicago and then falls asleep on his shoulder suspiciously quickly, which makes Brandon think, well.

Now that he’s put aside the automatic defensiveness of his reaction from the other night, he’s pretty sure he’s figured out what Shawzy’s trying to do. It’s not at all surprising in retrospect that his chosen method of seduction is to constantly push the boundaries of acceptable physical affection—it’s how Shawzy does everything, really. He’s sneaky; instead of being upfront with you he just worms his way in and you don’t even notice until you’re already used to it.

Brandon likes it. Brandon likes it a lot.

The only surprising thing about it is that Nick had to say something to make Brandon figure it out. It hardly matters, though; Brandon knows now, and he feels a bit high on the revelation, even though he hasn’t done anything about it yet. 

Those good vibes carry over to the game against the Wild, and they show in his play; he gets a goal and two assists in the first period and ends up being named the second star of the game. Brandon’s grinning wide as the guys congratulate him—most with fist bumps or affectionate pats, but of course Shawzy comes out of nowhere and jumps on Brandon’s back, arms slung around his neck.

“You’re a fuckin’ _rockstar_!” he shouts in Brandon’s ear. “I know we have a game tomorrow, but I don’t give a shit, I’m coming over, and we’re having a beer to toast to how fuckin’ great you are.”

There wasn’t actually a question in there anywhere, so Brandon just laughs at him, then elbows him in the stomach so he can get out of his gear. Andrew really must be proud, because he doesn’t even whine about it.

—

Andrew follows him home and in short order, they’re chilling on Brandon’s sofa. Shawzy hasn’t tried to sit on Brandon’s lap or put his feet on him or anything, but he is sitting unnecessarily close, and he keeps bumping into Brandon as he gestures while telling some ridiculous story that Brandon is only half-listening to. 

When it sounds like he’s done, Brandon nods, squares his shoulders, and sets down his beer. Shawzy cocks his head at him, exactly like a confused dog—but Brandon shoves that thought down, beset by a sudden, pointless wave of nerves. He _knows_ he isn’t, but—“If I’m reading this wrong,” he says, voice steadier than he expected it to be. “Just like. Punch me, or something, and we can forget about it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Andrew slowly. His voice says ‘confused’, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in his eye, and yeah, Brandon’s got this. From there, it’s easy to reach out, cup Andrew’s face in one hand, and press their lips together.

Almost immediately, Shawzy groans “ _Finally_ ,” against his mouth, and then kisses back with a great deal of enthusiasm.

It’s a little overwhelming, actually, which is more or less exactly what Brandon expected kissing Shawzy to be like. Even though Brandon’s the one who initiated the kiss, he has to work to keep up. Both of his hands end up in Andrew’s hair, Andrew's grabbing his ass, and they’re halfway to laying down on the couch. Brandon has no idea what Andrew did with his beer, but he spares a thought to hope it’s not spilling somewhere that will stain.

He pulls away when he needs to breathe, and he can’t resist panting against Andrew’s neck, “You could’ve said something, Shawzer.”

“I _did_ ,” says Andrew, sounding highly affronted. Brandon raises his head to look at him, which is a mistake, because he’s still short of breath and Andrew’s lips look obscene right now. “I told six different media outlets you were hot, bro.” 

It takes Brandon’s brain a second to catch up with those words and when he does he groans. “Did you really just call me ‘bro’ in the middle of making out with me?”

“Oh, are we still doing that?” says Andrew sweetly. Brandon rolls his eyes, but he rises to the bait, nipping at Andrew’s bottom lip, which elicits a noise that’s somehow attractive even though it really shouldn’t be. 

Shawzy kisses him back, but he pulls away after a few seconds, because apparently he is _never done talking_. “This is all part of my master plan, Brandon. If I had jumped you like, three months ago, what would you have even done?”

This is actually a fair point, and Brandon is man enough to admit that, but Andrew is _still talking_. “I had to like, ease you into it, you know? Make sure you were good and ready before I—”

“We can keep arguing about this or we can have sex, but not both,” says Brandon as dryly as he can manage. 

Andrew’s eyes widen, but his expression shifts quickly to something much more devilish. “The second one, man, the second one,” he says, before turning his focus to leaving a wicked hickey on Brandon’s neck. Brandon will absolutely be chirped for that tomorrow.

Brandon finds he doesn’t really care that much, though. He guides them into a more horizontal position, which just gives Andrew a better angle. His hand tightens in Andrew’s hair; Andrew sinks his teeth into Brandon’s neck. Brandon rolls his hips against Andrew’s, then laughs when it occurs to him what they’re doing.

“What?” Shawzy complains against his collarbone. 

“Nothing,” says Brandon, still chuckling, which is apparently an unsatisfactory answer, because Andrew nips sharply at his skin. “Ow, Mutt,” Brandon gripes, tugging at his hair. “No, it’s just...we’re one-upping each other, this is ridiculous.” 

Andrew pulls away enough to give Brandon an appraising look, and then grins, lightning-quick and filthy. “I’ll put my one up you,” he says suggestively.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Brandon groans, tipping his head back. 

Andrew kisses the underside of his jaw. It’s oddly sweet. “Hey, you knew what you were getting yourself into,” Andrew points out as he slides down Brandon’s body. It’s actually a pretty slick move—the friction feels great—but then he ruins it by breaking into giggles when the innuendo hits him. He’s laughing hard enough that he actually lays his head down on Brandon’s crotch to recover, which is the worst kind of tease.

Brandon holds his hips still, but it’s difficult. “This was a terrible idea,” he complains jokingly.

Andrew’s face still gets serious, though. “Hey, no, you’re not allowed to decide that until _after_ I get my mouth on your dick, I have been _so patient_.” 

There’s a little bit more sincerity in that than Brandon would’ve expected, but he’s way too turned on to process that now. He files it away, and instead of digging, says, “By all means,” and gives his best approximation of a welcoming gesture. 

Andrew snorts. “You’re such a dork,” he mutters, but he does start taking Brandon’s pants off, so everybody wins.

If Brandon had actually thought about it, he wouldn’t have expected Andrew to be any good at this, but either he has more practice than Brandon assumed or he’s a natural. He wraps his hand around the base of Brandon’s cock, takes the head into his mouth, and starts moving his hand and tongue with surprisingly good coordination. 

It’s enough to make Brandon’s hips buck up off the couch involuntarily. Andrew chokes a little and lays his free arm across Brandon’s torso to keep it from happening again. “Fuck, sorry,” says Brandon breathlessly. He reaches down to stroke Andrew’s cheek in apology, but that just means he feels the outline of his dick in Andrew’s mouth. “Fuck,” he says again.

Shawzy pulls off to grin at him. There’s a trail of spit connecting his lips to Brandon’s cock and it should be really gross, but all Brandon can think about is how good Andrew looks like this. “You can pull my hair if you want, dude. I like it,” Andrew says, then sinks back down far enough that he’s kissing his own fist.

Brandon doesn’t need to be told twice; he fists one hand in the couch (god, he’s going to have to tip his cleaning service _so well_ after this) and the other in Andrew’s hair. It’s obvious that he was telling the truth, because as soon as he does, Andrew moans, and the vibrations feel amazing. Brandon arches his head back and concentrates on keeping his hips in check.

There’s no other word for it: Andrew really is skilled at this. He keeps changing it up; he’ll suck hard and deep for a few seconds, then he’ll pull off entirely and flutter his tongue around the head. It’s all kind of teasing, but it’s also driving Brandon closer and closer to the edge. Brandon’s a little embarrassed by the noises he keeps making, but they seem to be egging Andrew on, so he doesn’t let it bother him too much.

Brandon can tell he’s getting close, and tugs sharply at Andrew’s hair to warn him. “A-Andrew, I’m…” he says before trailing off into a groan. Andrew doesn’t move, though; instead he releases Brandon’s hips and uses that hand to toy with his balls, and Brandon is gone. As he starts to come, Andrew pulls off just enough that he gets come all over his lips and chin, and it’s the hottest fucking thing Brandon has ever seen.

“ _Fuck_ , Shawzy, get up here,” Brandon pants. He grabs Shawzy’s shirt collar and tugs to make him move faster, and then he crushes their lips together. It’s sticky, and he can taste himself all over Andrew’s mouth, but that just makes it better.

They kiss for a few seconds, as Brandon’s brain comes back online. Then Andrew starts rocking his hips against Brandon’s leg, and like hell is Brandon going to let that be how Shawzy gets off after he gave Brandon a blowjob like that. He doesn’t break the kiss, just gets his hand down between them and undoes Andrew’s pants. 

“It’s not gonna take much,” says Andrew against his lips as he finally gets his hand on Andrew’s cock. Brandon shrugs, because he couldn’t care less. He’s not quite coherent enough to make it a great handjob—it’s hard to say whether he’s jerking Andrew off or Andrew’s fucking into his fist—but Andrew is loud and responsive, because of course he is. He mutters a filthy monologue of things he wants them to do to each other into Brandon’s ear, some of which Brandon is pretty sure are anatomically impossible, until he comes with a moan of Brandon’s name.

Brandon resists the urge to wipe his hand off on Andrew’s pants, because he is a considerate sexual partner. He wipes it off on his own shirt instead. Shawzy laughs, then slumps down, nuzzling his face into Brandon’s chest. “We didn’t even take our fucking clothes off.”

“I feel like I’m fourteen again,” Brandon agrees.

Andrew picks his head up so that he can raise an eyebrow at Brandon. “You were getting blowjobs when you were fourteen?” 

He could correct the age, but he’s feeling kind of sappy in his afterglow, so he goes for a compliment instead. “None that good.” 

Andrew smiles at him and lays his head back down. “No, c’mon, we’re gross and we need to shower,” says Brandon, tugging gently on Andrew’s hair with his clean hand. 

“Together?” says Shawzy suggestively. Brandon can feel the smirk against his chest. 

“Sure, if you can avoid cracking your head on anything, because I’m definitely not up for explaining that tomorrow.” 

—

After round two in the shower, they curl up in Brandon’s bed together. Brandon is prepared to fight to be the big spoon, but he doesn’t even have a chance to open his mouth before Andrew is grabbing Brandon’s hand and wrapping it around his waist. 

Well, that was easy.

He’s used to Shawzy being a restless sleeper, tossing and turning for hours in hotel rooms, but he settles right down when he’s bracketed in by Brandon’s arms, almost disconcertingly still. Brandon shifts his head a little, so his lips are resting against the knob at the top of Andrew’s spine. Andrew shivers, but then scoots back, pressing even closer.

“So, like,” says Andrew quietly. There’s a hint of unease in his voice, and Brandon remembers the way he’d implied earlier that Brandon was going to regret this. “Is this, y’know. Is this like buddyfucking, or…”

Brandon is trying to be good, but he can’t resist letting out a snort of laughter at that. “Jesus Christ, Shawzy, that’s not a thing.”

“It so is a thing!” Shawzy insists. Brandon can feel him trying to turn over, maybe so he can try to prove his point more vehemently, but Brandon holds him firmly. “I knew these guys—”

“Yeah, maybe some guys say they’re doing that,” Brandon allows, “but that’s because they’re lying to themselves, and we’re…” Brandon exhales, a little frustrated at his inability to find words, and Andrew shivers from the breath against his skin. Brandon kisses his spine, so gently, because that’s kind of what he’s trying to say, and then says, “I don’t really, like. I don’t do casual.”

At once, Shawzy goes entirely boneless in his arms. Brandon hadn’t realized he was so tense before. “Good, ‘cause I don’t either,” says Andrew, finding Brandon’s hand and lacing their fingers together. 

Brandon smiles, but of course Andrew could never just leave it at that. “You’re way too much work for that, Saader. Fuckin’ _months_ , I’m telling you,” he gripes.

—

They both get chirped about the hickeys in the locker room the next day. Brandon doesn’t know if anybody puts it together—their stalls aren’t next to each other or anything, and the T-shirt Shawzy borrowed isn’t obviously Brandon’s—but he also doesn’t ask, because he knows better than to ask a question he doesn’t want the answer to.

Nick knows immediately, but he also had advance knowledge. “Nice to see you two losers finally got your shit together,” he chirps quietly as they take the ice for the powerplay. 

“Yep,” answers Shawzy with an obvious leer, and half a minute later Brandon gets an assist on Andrew’s powerplay goal, so. 

—

March is a good month. The team’s points streak comes to an end, but it was always going to eventually, and at least Brandon is still racking them up. He gets on a neat four-game point streak, then it’s snapped by the Blue Jackets, then another four-game streak that ends with the Flames. Still, it’s good, Q keeps raving about him to the media, and after practice one morning, he and Andrew get pulled into an interview for the Blackhawks magazine, which is pretty cool. 

Of course, Shawzy spends the entire time being ridiculous. He doesn’t outright say anything, but he does flirt with the borderline of propriety: he suggests that Brandon “has the women hanging from him,” talks about his “mature body,” and wonders almost dreamily what Brandon’s going to look like when he’s thirty.

The interviewer just seems amused by it, though, especially when Andrew tells the story of Brandon tucking his napkin into his shirt. They’re both laughing, and Brandon is still confused about why that’s a funny thing to do. “Why would you want to spill something on your shirt if you don’t have to?” he asks, and they laugh harder.

He does get Shawzy back eventually. When he starts to get self-deprecating about his size, Brandon jumps in to say, “When people see him, they’re surprised he isn’t bigger because he plays so big, throwing his weight around. Shawzy’s got an edge to him, you know? I could bring him to Pittsburgh, and he would fit right in.” He sneaks a glance at Andrew out of the corner of his eye, and just as he thought—that reference to bringing him home did not go over his head, not if the way Andrew looks completely dumbstruck is any indication. “It’s a blue-collar town; he’s a blue-collar guy,” Brandon adds innocently. 

But Andrew gets the last laugh, and it’s worse because he doesn’t even do it on purpose. Brandon gets drawn into talking about his dad and how great he is, and he notices Andrew looking at him with something like admiration. The interviewer notices too, asks him about it, and Andrew says simply, “He’s amazing, Man-Child is.” 

_God_. Brandon’s glad that the interview wraps up quickly after that, because he needs to show Shawzy just how amazing he can be.

—

The end of March is the best, though, because on the 31st they murder the Red Wings 7-1. Brandon is locked in with Jonny all night: Jonny gets the assist on Brandon’s goal three minutes into the first, and then in the second, they assist each other on a goal each, eight seconds and a goalie change apart. Brandon gets first star and, later, the belt, which feels almost as awesome as everybody on the team telling the media how great he is. 

After he gets the belt, Brandon is trading chirps with Stally. They’re not particularly close, but Viktor’s got a dry sense of humor like Brandon’s own, and lately he and Brandon have been one-upping each other whenever they can, just because it’s fun.

“You just couldn’t get it done for the hatty, huh, Saader?” says Stalberg, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Brandon smiles innocently, then tugs his jersey off. “Well, y’know, I’m young, I guess I’m just not desperate enough yet...I mean, a guy like you, with your hairline, you’d probably do anything to get people to throw hats at you, huh?”

Stally glares and his hand flies to his hair, but then Brandon notices that the locker room is suddenly very quiet. 

It’s not that Brandon was talking that loud, but it just happened that his remark to Stally fell in one of those lulls where a room’s conversations align. Which means that everyone heard it, and after a second or so of silence, somebody says, “Oooooooooh,” and they all burst out laughing. 

“Well, whaddya know, little Man-Child’s got jokes!” teases Duncs, pulling Brandon in for a sweaty noogie. Brandon’s flushing a little at all the attention—he doesn’t see the big deal, it’s not like it was _that_ clever—but it’s kind of nice for a change to have everybody looking at him.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” says Jonny, shaking his head.

“Like you’d know, you haven’t been quiet a day in your life, Toe-ez,” chirps Sharpy, and then they’re off again. 

—

After their last practice before the playoffs, somebody asks Kaner if he’s going to do the mullet again, and the locker room explodes in laughter. Kaner shrugs it off, but then Sharpy starts needling him, talking about luck and tradition, so naturally Kaner comes back with, “You wanna do it with me, Sharpy?”

Sharpy strokes his chin like he’s considering it. “Hmmmm...yeah, not a chance in hell, Peekaboo.” 

Kaner’s smirking, like he knows he’s won. “Crow? Carbomb? Anybody?” The locker room is as quiet as Brandon’s ever heard it. Flow is one thing, but few guys are either ballsy or tasteless enough to go for a mullet like Kaner’s.

“I’ll do it,” Brandon hears himself say. It’s a crazy, spur-of-the-moment idea, but—why not? It’s the playoffs, and the Hawks won in 2010 when Kaner did it. The guys are slow-clapping, and Brandon flushes, but Kaner’s looking at him across the locker room with something like respect.

“All right, Man-Child. You’re on. Tomorrow?” says Kaner. He’s been tossing a ball of used sock tape between his hands, and now he lobs it at Brandon. Brandon catches it, then nods at Kaner.

“Tomorrow.”

—

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up,” says Kaner the next day. He’d texted Brandon the address of his barber, and Brandon had responded with a thumbs up emoji, but Brandon supposes there are a lot of guys who would say that and still flake.

Brandon shrugs. “If I say I’m gonna do something, I do it.”

There’s that look again, the one Brandon is pretty sure is respect. If he’d known all it would take to get Patrick Kane to respect him was a stupid haircut, he’d have signed up for this ages ago.

Brandon’s not a particularly vain guy, but it still feels weird to intentionally ask a barber for a haircut he knows is going to look terrible. It’s sort of freeing—there’s no anxiety at all over what the final product will look like.

Kaner goes first, because he says, “I definitely don’t want to watch you getting yours done before I get mine, or I might be the one to wimp out on you.” That’s encouraging. Brandon tries not to watch, even though he’s seen plenty of pictures of Kaner’s playoff mullet over the years. He buries his head in his phone instead, where he’s got three texts from Shawzy that say _I am DEFINITELY NOT kissing u w/ a mullet, There is still time_ , and _Turn back while u can!!_

Brandon chuckles and texts back, _Yes you are._

When it’s Brandon’s turn, he keeps himself from looking until the final reveal. It’s pretty spectacularly bad, he must admit, but he’s still smiling. It’s the playoffs, who cares? He’ll just cut it all short when it’s over, hopefully very late into the summer.

The barber asks him about racing stripes. Brandon can see that Kaner’s got three, so he nods. “Yeah, but just two on each side for now. I’ve gotta earn mine.”

—

It’s definitely different heading into the playoffs with the Hawks after playing with them all season, as opposed to being called up at the last minute. Being a part, however small, of the dominant shortened season—being a real part of the team—means Brandon feels like there’s a lot more riding on the results, this time.

He knows it’s even worse for Leds and Shawzer. Nick played every game last season, and Andrew played half of them, and they’re currently exchanging increasingly violent promises for the playoffs over some sad nutritionist-approved pizza. They’ve also kicked Brandon out of this game, because as Nick said, “What could you promise that would be worse than that fucking haircut?”

“We’re not gonna get kicked out in the first round, even if I have to tackle the goalie again,” swears Shawzy. 

Brandon raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, do that again, since you getting suspended worked out so great for us last time.”

Before Andrew can get on a tirade about how the point is his willingness to endure supplemental discipline for the good of the team, Nick cuts in and says, “We’re not gonna get kicked out in the first round, even if I have to take a puck to the teeth like Duncs.” 

Shawzy starts cackling and high-fives him; Brandon groans, “Don’t be a hero, Ledpipe.” 

—

They don’t get kicked out in the first round. On the contrary, they win game one in overtime, then dominate game two. Minnesota’s fans are completely nuts and it’s almost as bad to play as a visiting team in the Xcel Center as Brandon imagines it must be to visit the UC—so they lose game three in overtime.

In between games three and four, Brandon’s named a Calder finalist, which is—well. His phone rings for the next three days with congratulations from just about everyone he knows. The team messes with him in practice by making him skate out first and then all promptly turning around so he’s alone, which is the way they like to embarrass anybody who’s done something particularly good. Shawzy gives him a top-quality celebratory blowjob in their hotel room later. It’s a good day.

It’s even better when the team comes right back in game four—nothing like shutting a team out in their house during the playoffs—and then take the Wild in five.

—

It’s possible they’re a bit over-confident when they take on the Red Wings in the quarterfinals. Game one is a nice, decisive 4-1 win, but then they drop three straight. Game five is at home, but the last thing any of them want to do is lose at home after the season they’ve had. 

Brandon’s frustrated with himself. He’s only got one assist to his name in the playoffs so far, and a month and a half ago, he had a three-point night against this team. He doesn’t need to be the hero, but even if they end up losing, he’d like to do _something_ so he doesn’t have to blame himself all summer.

The hero ends up being Shawzy. He loses just one faceoff in the first period, and spends every second on the ice or on the bench riling everybody up. “C’mon, it’s the fuckin’ Red Wings! Let’s make fuckin’ calamari out of them!” he screams at least eight times where Brandon can hear him. 

It’s so stupid, because it doesn’t make any sense. It’s an octopus, not a squid, that’s their mascot, and it’s not like they even have sea creatures on their jerseys—but it works. 

Bicks nets one towards the end of the first, and then Detroit ties it up halfway through the second, which is where things really start to heat up. There are penalties left and right, and Brandon keeps getting sent out when they’re shorthanded—he manages a couple shots, nothing doing—but then they manage to capitalize on two Detroit penalties in a row. 

In the third period there’s a beauty of a play: Brandon knocks a Red Wing off the puck, Stalberg collects it, shoots, misses, but then Shawzy gets the rebound for his second of the night. 

Brandon smashes into Andrew’s left side for the celly; Nick’s already on his right. All three of them are shouting, “Calamari!” It’s so fucking stupid, Brandon can’t stop laughing, but it’s fucking _working_.

Andrew gets the well-deserved first star, and the whole team buys him as much calamari as he can eat.

—

Their slump means they have to take the Red Wings all the way to game seven, knowing that one bad period could cost them the playoffs, but they _do_ it; Seabs puts it away in overtime, and they fucking win.

They only get two days off before they play the Kings in the WCF, but they’re still on a high from that heartstopper of a series against Detroit. It plays out almost exactly like the Wild series: win games one and two, drop three, then take four and five. 

Game five is the kind of game Brandon thinks he’ll tell his kids about someday—he’s not even on the ice for the ending, but it’s a classic Blackhawks victory: Toews to Kane for the game winner and a hat trick for Kaner, in double OT. It’s one of those moments where Brandon can’t quite believe he really gets to play on the same team with these guys. 

Quick lays spread-eagled on the ice. Hats are flying everywhere. Shawzy, always the clown, skates up behind Kaner and wraps his arms around him Titanic-style, then kisses him on the cheek. It’s all over the internet the next day, which Brandon finds hysterical, but not nearly as hysterical as Andrew apologizing to him like he thinks Brandon’s going to be jealous or something.

Once it’s clear that Brandon’s just going to laugh at him, Shawzer changes his tone. “Fine, fine, let me put it this way. When _you_ get a hat trick in double overtime during the playoffs, I promise to kiss you on the mouth so everybody’ll know you’re my favorite.” 

That prospect is a little exciting and a little terrifying, but since it’s also pretty unlikely to come up any time soon, Brandon feels okay with just saying, “Oh my God,” and continuing to laugh into his hands.

—

They get four days before they have to play the Bruins, and Brandon is...he knows he should be exhausted, and maybe he is, physically. He’s lost almost fifteen pounds; they all have. Mentally, though, he feels like he’s on drugs or something. It’s his rookie season and he’s playing in the _Stanley Cup Finals_. Part of him is raring to get on the ice and get started; part of him never wants it to be over.

There are little _2013 Stanley Cup Finals_ patches sewn onto all of their jerseys and decals on the back of all of their helmets. It’s surreal. After Brandon puts his jersey on for their first game, he stares at himself in the mirror for almost three minutes. He’s twenty, and he’s playing in the fucking Stanley Cup Finals.

No matter how many times he repeats it in his head, it refuses to sink in. 

It’s a hell of a first game. Boston opens the scoring in the first, then again a minute into the second, but a minute after that, Brandon gets the puck past Rask for his first postseason goal. The stands erupt in cheers, and when Brandon skates by the bench for fist-bumps, Shawzy is losing his shit, screaming “That’s my boy!” over and over. 

It goes to triple overtime—they’re still playing at midnight—and then Andrew screens Rask beautifully, and the puck bounces off his shinpad and in. Brandon can’t even get near Shawzy on the ice, everybody’s mobbing him, but in the locker room, he slaps him on the ass and says “That’s my boy.” Andrew grins fiercely and messes up Brandon’s hair.

—

Of course, they can’t all be like that. The Hawks lose game two in overtime, get shut out in game three—and what if they lose it here? Brandon can’t decide if it would be worse to be embarrassed by a first round exit or to get all this way and have nothing to show for it.

He firmly closes his mind to that idea. It doesn’t matter, because the first scenario didn’t happen, and the second one won’t either. They’re going to win it; they’re the better team and they’ve got what it fucking takes.

Game four is a display of how tired both goalies are, because it goes to OT tied 5-5. Brandon feels great about his assist on their first goal, since it was a shortie, and Seabs gets the game winner again, just like the series-ender against the Red Wings. Game five is more decisive, 3-1 Hawks, and then they’re headed to Boston for game six.

Brandon hears the possible scenarios summed up a hundred times between the end of game five and the start of game six: if they win tonight, they win the Stanley Cup. It’s actually in the building. Tonight’s their game to win. If they lose, they go back to Chicago for game seven, anybody’s game.

From the start, Boston plays like they’re going to force a game seven if they have to sell their souls to do it. They open up the scoring and get twice as many shots in the first as Chicago does. Jonny ties it up for the Hawks early in the second, but then it's a war of attrition, and the Hawks are getting pummeled. Brandon takes three hits in the second alone, and he’s not the only one. 

Going into the third, it feels like the next team to score will be the team who wins—and it’s Boston. Twelve minutes in, it’s Boston, and there’s only eight minutes of hockey to play, but not one person on the Hawks bench gives up. Brandon’s a little amazed; nobody’s playing like they expect an overtime or game seven, the whole team's acting like it's _already_ game seven and it’s do or die.

There’s a minute-twenty left and Crow heads to the bench for the extra attacker. Four seconds later, Bicks puts it away. Everybody’s on their feet, yelling; Crow turns right back around—and they lose the faceoff. But then Hammer intercepts the puck from Ference, passes to Bolland, who takes it up the ice. He shoots to Frolik, Rask knocks it away, Oduya’s shot on the rebound is deflected—and then Bolly scores, seventeen seconds after Bickell. 

The celly is unlike anything Brandon’s ever experienced. He’s on the bench, sandwiched between Kaner and Stalberg; there’s hands everywhere, everyone is jumping up and down and patting everyone else they can reach—but there is still a minute to play. 

The Bruins pull Rask. If Brandon thought they were playing desperate before, it’s nothing like now. The Hawks keep clearing it back to the neutral zone only to have the Bruins knock it back into their end. Nobody on the bench has sat down since the second goal was scored. 

And then with three seconds to go, Jonny charges the puck out of the Hawks’ zone, throwing himself onto the ice to knock it just that much farther. A Bruin gets his stick on it, but it doesn’t matter—he’s too far away, there’s not enough time—

and they’ve _won_.

Everybody leaps over the boards. They’re screaming, jumping, grabbing at each other, shedding their helmets and gloves and sticks. Brandon has never been so deliriously happy in his life. He hugs everyone he can get his hands on: Bolly, for that beauty of a GWG; Jonny, who tells Brandon he should “be fucking proud of yourself, you played fuckin’ lights out this year”; Seabs, because Brandon needs to tell him he’s “fucking clutch as fuck” one more time. 

Nick and Andrew are hugging to his left as he breaks away from congratulating Crow on “shutting every game the fuck down”, and they reel him in as one. 

They hug for what feels like hours but is probably ten seconds or so, until Andrew pulls away to shout, “That’s how you start a career, eh, Saader? That’s how you do it!” 

Brandon laughs and slaps him and Nick both on the back a few times. “Yeah, Shawzer, that’s right.” He grins then, somehow managing to smile even wider than he already is, and adds, “That’s how we did it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue: [this](http://33.media.tumblr.com/25caaa1c4b7781b7ae813e506cadda5e/tumblr_mqkgudwLHb1qch5rvo1_500.gif).
> 
> For a handy dandy timeline with sources for all real events depicted in this fic, click [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1qZ4JdIgSMt9xAnQ8eSIdpE-YdabwjlHEuGSAW-B007A/edit?usp=sharing)! (Please do not ask how many hours I spent assembling this for lo, I am ashamed)
> 
> If you wanna talk about how Brandon Saad is perfection in human form, how inexplicably terrible the Hawks powerplay is, or anything really, you can find me on [tumblr](http://aperfect20.tumblr.com).


End file.
